


wwelcome to paradox space's wwaste disposal

by Sleepy_9000



Series: Woolen Armor [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Also Droog is a stabdad, Alternate Timeline, Davejade isn't the main focus but it's there, Doc Scratch is a creepy asshole, Doomed Timelines, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-07-27 11:16:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7615927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepy_9000/pseuds/Sleepy_9000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You've known one Eridan Ampora for almost two years by this point. Despite his eccentricities and the difficult situation he claims to be in, you think that some semblance of control has finally begun to fall in your favor regarding the reality of your situation.</p>
<p>It's only after the game tears everything dear away from you and hands it back in a twisted, unfamiliar form that you realize how laughable such a notion truly was.</p>
<p>---------------------------------------<br/>Erirose AU occurring in an alternate timeline where Rose has known Eridan for a lot longer than she has the other trolls. Expect time shenanigans, sarcasm, occasional flirting, and a lot of fighting fate. POV's gunna hop around between a small rotation of characters, but the central focus is Rose. Buckle up everyone, this is going to be one hell of a long journey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Press Play to Begin

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all, Sleepy here. Been working on this one a loooong time. Hope you guys enjoy it. Dunno how long this is gunna be, but I've got big plans, so just bear with me.

\-- caligulasAquarium [CA] began trolling tentacleTherapist [TT] \--  
CA: please for the lovve of fuck tell me that bespectacled mouthbreather got his hands on that hideous disaster of a game by noww if i gotta wwait another goddamn minute im gunna scream into the vvoid until my bloodpusher bursts like a party balloon full of grape landdwweller swwill  
TT: Good evening, Eridan.  
TT: I trust you’re doing well?  
CA: im doin just fine just wwaitin around for the jester of this fuckin courtroom to get his shit in order so you can finally get this showw on the road and i can make sure ya dont get yerself fuckin killed  
TT: I see. Do go on.  
CA: ww  
CA: wwait are you  
CA: fuckin goddamnit  
CA: are wwe really doing the shitty psychoanalyst shtick NOWW of all times  
TT: I have no idea what you’re talking about. I am merely extending a friendly gesture by inquiring about your well-being.  
TT: You seem stressed. Have you been sleeping normally?  
CA: ros you knoww perfectly wwell howw much i fuckin sleep its not exactly somethin i havve much swway in wwhen it comes to bodily functions  
TT: Fair.  
TT: To answer your question, no, John has not successfully procured his copy of the Sburb Beta. Last I heard he had donned a ridiculously silly assortment of objects in order to obscure his identity for an altercation with his father.  
TT: Tragically, I do not have much hope regarding the odds of his success in said venture.  
CA: hahaha yeah that sounds about right  
CA: morons probably gettin slammed wwith a cake the size of his body as wwe speak  
CA: yer clowwns wwont savve you noww wwill they  
CA: loser  
TT: You know, I honestly thought you two would wind up becoming much better friends. You could bond over your mutual hatred for jovial entertainers.  
TT: I suppose you just can’t handle his mangrit, hmn?  
CA: dont evven start wwith that fuckin hoofbeast shit right noww im serious  
CA: i can handle all his mangrit and steamin pile more just FINE thank you vvery much  
TT: Scandalous!  
CA: oh my fuck i wwalked right into that one  
CA: youre awwful i hope you knoww that  
TT: You’re welcome.  
TT: While we’re on the topic of clowns, are you picking up any signals on that front?  
CA: nah nothin yet  
CA: wwe got lookouts tho if he tries to spring anythin  
TT: Ah, yes. I’m certain the Baron will be able to stop his capricious hijinks in their tracks with no effort at all.  
CA: the baron is a vvital member of my team and i wwill not stand to havve you slander his good name wwith your inaccurate and blatantly sarcastic evvaluation of his meager abilities  
CA: anywways  
CA: has john gotten back from gettin his ass beat wwith pastries yet  
CA: as fun as this is to imagine just sittin around is drivving me fuckin nuts  
TT: No, not yet.  
TT: And when we start playing, I’d appreciate it if you eased off the relentless negative criticism a touch.  
TT: Goofy as he is, John is a close companion of mine. And it is his birthday, after all.  
CA: oh yeah  
CA: that wweird wwriggling day thing  
CA: so uh  
CA: howw are you holdin up wwith that  
TT: As previously expressed, it is John's birthday, not mine. As tackily endearing it would be for me to share such an important date with a dear friend of mine, we both know this is not the case.  
CA: yeah no shit thats not wwhat i meant at all  
CA: im sayin that givven the fuckin history wwevve had wwith birthdays  
CA: i just wwanted to make sure you wwere doin okay  
CA: so wwhats up howw are you feelin  
CA: hello  
CA: ros your powwer go out again or some shit  
TT: Eridan,  
TT: While I truly do appreciate the concern, I feel as if we have much more pressing matters at hand.  
TT: I am fine.  
TT: May we move on?  
CA: yeah aight  
CA: just wwanted to be safe  
TT: Don’t worry about it.  
TT: What exactly is the nature of the game John and I are about to play, anyways?  
TT: You claim to be an indisputable wealth of information on the mechanics and themes of Sburb, and yet the only thing you’ve proven to be indisputable is your talent to be frustratingly vague.  
TT: The articles I read online have provided more information than you’ve managed, and they all miraculously cut off around the first few minutes of gameplay.  
CA: wwell seein as egbert wwill be returnin wwith his discs soon if wwevve got any fuckin luck  
CA: i guess i can tell you  
TT: Please, indulge me.  
CA: aight  
CA: basically yer gunna connect to his client as his servver player an thatll showw you his house  
CA: then ya gotta deploy a buncha bigass machines an use resources to expand some rooms to fit them in  
CA: tha machines wwill let ya do some stupid punchcard alchemy shit  
CA: i nevver did much of that my gear wwas already badass as hell  
CA: oh and if you dont figure it out fast enough hell die  
CA: thats all pretty intense you still followwin here  
TT: So the game, in it's nature, allows for the long-distance manipulation of physical matter and structural composition.  
TT: Hmn.  
TT: This sounds hauntingly familiar to something I can't quite put my finger on.  
CA: wwhat are you fuckin yappin about  
TT: No, no, I'm certain this is something I've heard before.  
CA: howw is that evven possible this is mind blowwin shit right here knocked me for a fuckin loop back in my runaround wwith it  
TT: Give me a moment. I'll figure this out.  
CA: wwait are you  
CA: ros you cant be fuckin serious right noww  
TT: Oh, I know!  
CA: okay yeah youre serious  
TT: It's incredibly obvious. I'm shocked I didn't realize it earlier.  
CA: alright yup here wwe go this is the part wwhere you say its magic and i flip my shit funny times wwith ampora and lalonde  
TT: It's...  
CA: yup cmon do it lets get this done  
TT: Magic~.  
CA: magic is fake as shit THERE I DID IT HAHAHA FUNNY JOKE THIS WWAS A GREAT USE OF OUR TIME HAHAHA  
CA: fuck you

\-- caligulasAquarium [CA] ceased trolling tentacleTherapist [TT] \--

TT: Oh, you giant ham.

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you’re fairly certain that he’ll be messaging you again within the hour. In the nearly two years you’ve known Eridan Ampora, he’s never failed to come crawling back sooner or later. His tenacity is remarkable.

Looks like John is messaging you. In the corner of your screen, the Sburb Server icon is blinking in an attempt at connection with your selected client. Time to get this showw on the road.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------

The brief respite from impatient prodding via violet text lasted approximately twelve and a half minutes. It’s a welcome distraction, however- a grounding element to gently prod you out of the reverie you’ve found yourself in after witnessing such shameless defiance of logical reality and everyday occurrence. Pesterchum’s message notification blinks on the screen of your laptop, light flashing onto the walls of the dark observatory.

You had zoomed out as far as the game allowed, hoping to assess the problem at hand from a greater vantage point. Instead you had given yourself a prime viewership position as a meteor hurtled down toward your friend’s location at a blinding rate. The explosion on impact was a momentary flash of golden flames and devastation, and then the viewport had gone black.

It was only when the image of John’s house perched precariously on a tall spire over a gray sea of clouds faded in on your screen that you allowed yourself to breathe. 

You skim over several lines of half-hearted complaints scrawled in purple text, a welcome distraction from the rapid heartbeats in your chest. After a few moments you compose yourself, then begin typing.

TT: Eridan.  
TT: If your claims to having the knowledge of this game’s workings and the nature of my session hold any truth at all,  
TT: I’d suggest you start explaining some things.  
TT: Immediately.  
CA: oh wwell shit  
CA: wwelcome back  
CA: took ya damn long enough to take this shit seriously  
CA: wwere finally fuckin gettin somewwhere  
CA: aight listen up


	2. Downward Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heyy, it's Chapter Two. This one's a bit longer than the previous one- I hope y'all enjoy it. :)

The mausoleum floor is cold and dry through the fabric of your skirt, a stark contrast to the pelting, incessant rain and raging inferno of outside. Despite the usage of a handy umbrella, you’ve found yourself soaked nearly to the bone. Perhaps worse is the unsettling lingering warmth clinging to the bare skin of your arms; a tingling physical reminder of the forest fire causally making its way to your current location. The crackle of flame is still audible through the stone walls and mechanical roar of the generator outside, occasionally being interrupted by the booming sound of a mighty pine hitting the ground, charred and broken.  
You think you’ll have to write a formal letter of complaint to the local news station when you find time. If their weather forecast had provided a more accurate summary of tonight’s natural events, you would have prepared accordingly. 

But then again, there’s serious doubt being cast on whether these peculiar weather conditions could be legitimately classified as “natural”. While the torrential precipitation of water is both common and characteristic to the area in which you live, the flaming space debris raining down alongside it is rather atypical indeed. Whether their sudden arrival is yet another part of Sburb’s mysterious machinations, or if the interstellar onslaught was a mere coincidence that prompted the game’s producers to push a product they knew could be mankind’s only salvation.

It bothers you, not knowing. Especially when the “guy wwith all the answwers” is being so frustratingly cryptic for some god-forsaken reason.

Light shifts in your peripheral. Your eyes snap away from the suited cadaver that you share the small building’s interior with- why were you looking at Jaspers, anyway? And turn back to your laptop screen. A fresh batch of red text has unveiled itself in your humble Pesterchum window, ripe for visual harvest. 

TG: haha yeah well YOU WOULD  
TG: oh man i wish lil cal wouldnt look at me like that  
TG: with those dead eyes jesus  
TG: sometimes i dream that hes real and hes talking to me and i wake up in a cold sweat and basically flip the fuck out 

The corners of your mouth turn up into a slight smirk.

TT: Interesting...  
TG: oh god why did i just tell you my dream  
TG: youre going to have a field day with that  
TT: I am currently scrawling notes furiously into one of the many psychoanalysis journals I maintain for you. Published papers forthcoming.  
TG: rose i just want you to know that you are the absolute worst  
TG: like sweet damn can you give me a break with this shit for once  
TG: between your fucking shenanigans and all this rainbow puppet ass lorded over the king of soulless staredowns himself  
TG: i can barely devote proper time to the weird visceral feeling ive had about this horrific apocalypse game all day its seriously throwing off my game here  
TT: Oh?  
TT: Do go on.  
TT: I believe you’ve expressed similar sentiments in our previous conversations, have you not?  
TG: jesus christ why do i ever say anything around you ever  
TG: like i should fucking know by now that literally any scrap of dialogue i put out is gunna be snatched up  
TG: youll swoop down like goddamn brain hawk and sink your talons into it  
TG: tuck it away in a file for your work in progress scrapbook of my brain coming to bookstores near you soon  
TG: who would even want a scrapbook of my brain  
TG: all my adoring fans obviously i mean what a deal  
TG: get your own strider grey matter book today  
TG: half off for smug feathery assholes who type in lavender text  
TT: Dave, while your tangent there was wonderfully verbose and expressive,  
TT: It was also a bit mean.  
TT: Believe it or not, under my alleged “ironic psychiatrist facade”, I am genuinely worried for you.  
TT: You’ve proven yourself to be particularly on-edge in the past week, give or take a few days. Far beyond the characteristic amount I’ve come to expect from you, anyways.  
TT: Is everything alright?  
TG: well  
TG: shit  
TG: im sorry i guess  
TG: look if it makes you feel better ill indulge your insane therapist bullshit just this once and i mean once  
TG: i think its all a bunch of nonsense anyways but who am i to fucking judge  
TT: I would appreciate that.  
TT: Go ahead, Dave. I have an open mind.  
TG: okay  
TG: theres just this  
TG: inescapable fucking feeling  
TG: that everything were about to do and all our lives going on from this point are just  
TG: wrong wrong WRONG  
TG: like on some existential level i feel as if somethings out of place  
TG: and that if we dont do something about it were all doomed to rot in the universes shitty reject pile  
TG: overseen by some sadistic sack of shit thatll poke us with sticks and throw colorful paint on our writhing formless bodies as a tribute to the cosmic circus  
TG: while the theme song to the shitty gore flick my bros obsessed with plays backwards in our minds nonstop  
TG: then your stupid tentacle monsters come out the darkness to have a dance party on top of us while waving broken pieces of metal around and bleeding profusely  
TG: also there’s a leprechaun i dunno what hes doing here but he seems tired  
TT: That’s quite the colorful and oddly specific fate you’ve laid out for us there, I must say.  
TT: Am I to assume the undead legion will be joining us, as well?  
TG: what no that would be stupid  
TG: besides i made up most of that garbage anyways theres literally no feasible way that stuff could ever happen at all ever  
TT: I guessed as much.  
TT: But what is genuine is the jarring sense of existential dread linked to our current situation, correct?  
TG: yeah basically  
TG: i dont know maybe im just losing my mind due to sheer cal exposure  
TG: its just this bizarre strongass feeling that unless we do some sorta majestic acrobatic fucking pirouette through a whole bunch of spacetime hoops and appease an omniscient being beyond our understanding  
TG: were going to be completely fucked over forever  
TG: okay yeah im definitely losing my mind get this demon puppet the hell out of here  
TT: Hmmn.  
TT: Well, given the fact that my humble laptop has newly been bestowed the ability to drastically reconstruct physical architecture, and that John managed to catapult his entire residence into another dimension just in time to avoid destruction via meteor using a holographic apple,  
TT: I’d say that both logic and reason have cleaned out their desks and left the establishment.  
TT: Try to keep note of these feelings. We’ve both already seen firsthand that vague precognition isn’t all too unusual for our social circle.  
TT: You’ve been paying rather close attention to that given individual as of late, have you not?  
TG: okay heres a fun challenge you go 24 hours without teasing me about jade and ill do the same for your mysterious fish boyfriend who may or may not exist  
TT: Deal.  
TT: Also, as I have previously iterated- he’s not my boyfriend.  
TG: yeah sure whatever you say i know you love the fact that hes a spooky aquatic person with emotional theatrics for days that completely fills the mo of “shit rose is obsessed with”  
TT: If my memory serves, didn’t you have a game disc to extract from your brother’s ironic fingerless gloves?  
TT: Forgive me for not indulging in more of your wild theorization regarding my romantic affiliation, but I’m afraid I prioritize my survival over the workings of your twisted imagination.  
TG: im heartbroken how could you do this to me i thought we were friends  
TG: this is betrayal beyond comprehension i am truly blown away  
TT: Yes, I am the traitorous wench. It is me.  
TT: Bro. Discs. Me not dying to a meteor.  
TG: alright alright im on it goddamn  
TG: hope you enjoyed picking at my cranium like a passive aggressive brain surgeon really brightened up my day  
TT: You are welcome.  
TT: Chop chop, Strider.

You take a moment to reflect on what your shade-laden friend said. For some odd reason, the dark sentiments he had expressed are feeling increasingly present in your mind. Familiar, even- almost as if a particularly elusive missing piece had been slid into place during the construction of a particularly expansive jigsaw puzzle. It’s both satisfying and a touch unsettling- while the concept is nearly as vague as it could possibly be, it clicks with some innate sense of knowledge in your mind and settles comfortably down in place.

The stakes have been, in an obtuse, irritatingly unclear fashion, raised. You didn’t even think such a thing was possible.

But then the moment passes. Like clockwork, another Pesterchum notification presents itself, this time heralding the arrival of someone decidedly more mysterious and more aquatic than Dave manages to be. You open the chat window, pointedly ignoring the warmth in your cheeks that is far too fresh to have been caused by any forest fire. You have much more pressing concerns than that.

\-- caligulasAquarium [CA] began trolling tentacleTherapist  [TT] \--  
CA: so havve you dealt wwith that fire yet or are you havvin fun wwatchin it burn evverythin dowwn  
CA: i mean i cant blame you if you are but i thought you had enough fuckin poise to prioritze survvivval ovver entertainment  
CA: in my experience thats more of a subjuggulator thing but the one guy i knoww from THAT group of maniacs aint exactly a model goddamn example  
TT: I’m not sure how you expect me to “deal with” the fire.  
TT: While I haven’t checked in on it within the last few minutes, last I saw it was happily raging out of control at the border of my residence.  
CA: right you dont got the thorns yet  
CA: wwhere are you right noww exactly  
TT: Ignoring the odd comment about a natural defense system of a plant I share the namesake of, I am presently situated with the mock mausoleum constructed to house the deceased remains of a dear and loyal pet.  
TT: It is an ironic relic of his memory. I only pray he lives a more dignified existence beyond this mortal coil.  
CA: dead meowwbeast house got it  
CA: skippin ovver the mournin session for jaspers because its totally fuckin irrelevvant  
CA: also glad to hear youve gone evven closer to that shitty inferno that really soothes the nervves  
TT: You know, for all the supposed knowledge about my future and the rising events of my current Sburb session, you ask a great deal of questions.  
TT: Are you being truthful about your precognitive source, or are you just guessing?  
TT: If it’s the latter, I must commend your luck. Fate truly smiles upon you today, Eridan Ampora.  
CA: oh thats rich coming from you of all people  
CA: ros you aint got no IDEA the shit youll be usin luck for so dont go dumpin on the concept believve me youll regret it  
TT: … What a peculiar thing to say.  
TT: I was under the impression I would be approaching the task laid before me with the accumulation of my own abilities, not reliance on a incorporeal source of pure chance.  
TT: Have I been deceived?  
CA: wwell i mean you do  
CA: not at first but its sorta both  
CA: ill explain the stupid class aspect destiny garbage later but wwhat you gotta knoww is that youre gunna absolutely fuckin destroy assholes down the line  
CA: itll be impressivve and awweinspirin and a portion it will be sourced in luck believve me itll be wworth it  
CA: are you satisfied yet or wwhat  
TT: Well, when you put it that way, what other choice do I have?  
TT: It’s an obtuse approach to flattery, but I’ll accept it nonetheless.  
CA: its the goddamn truth is wwhat it is  
CA: unquestionable irrefutable FACT is all im peddlin your direction if youre takin it as flattery be my guest  
TT: You’ve always been a charmer.  
TT: My question regarding your information sources remains unanswered, however.  
TT: Tell me, Mister Ampora- how is it you do the things you do?  
CA: ill havve you knoww that i havve a dedicated squadron of ingenious and highly trained researchers DEVVOTED to the cause of gettin me information  
CA: all for the sole purpose of guidin you and your soggy friends through this horrid game and across the goddamn vvictory platform  
TT: Gasp!  
CA: you havve no IDEA the sort of unquestionable intellect and scientific process ivve got runnin ovver here  
CA: the parameters of my resources are BEYOND any form of feeble compreh  
CA: okay the parameters of my resources just hit me wwith her cane wwhich let it be fuckin KNOWWN wwas SUPER rude and inconsiderate of her  
TT: It will be on record as such until the end of time.  
TT: So you’ve gone to her for advice?  
TT: Given the many… unique stories you’ve told me about your sight-inhibited companion, I’m not sure whether to be excited or frightened.  
CA: probably a mix if im bein fuckin honest wwith you  
CA: shes also the reason my intel has been so shitty so far  
CA: if it wwas up to me id just drop the wwhole game plan on you at the start and just go from there  
CA: but no thats not fuckin allowwed for some reason  
CA: piles upon piles of evvents thatll go wwrong or break somethin or stupid shit like that if i dont hand you the right facts at the right time throughout this vvicious fuckin cycle  
CA: stupid goddamn destiny bullshit again im tellin you giant pain in our asses that wwe gotta wwork around  
TT: Hmn.   
TT: Give me a moment to get this organized.  
TT: You’re in the position to distribute information provided by one Miss Pyrope, but unless you do so in a very specific manner, the resulting consequences will have highly inopportune effects on our success in the game.  
TT: Which, given the rather condemning approach Sburb seems to possess when punishing players for failing to meet its expectations- a deduction gathered by having witnessed our team’s leader narrowly dodge cessation via interstellar airstrike,  
TT: Would be very wise to avoid at all possible costs.  
TT: Is that correct?  
CA: yeah basically  
TT: I see.  
TT: Well, I thank you graciously for the explanation.  
TT: Oddly enough, I feel very comfortable with the situation you’ve just conveyed. This is something I can work with.  
CA: haha yeah she said youd feel like that  
CA: all bullshit aside i dont think youvve got all that much time left in that tiny death shack  
CA: ters givvin me a “movve yer stupid asses along already” sorta look so talk to the other assholes messagin you and hop through the floor hatch wwhen the generator givves out  
TT: That’s strange.  
TT: It appears to me that this "floor hatch" you speak is notably absent from this building’s features.  
CA: oh motherfucker  
CA: alright forget i said that  
CA: just message your friends and  
CA: okay thats ENOUGH wwith the FUCKIN CANE already GODDAMN

The screen of your computer unceremoniously goes black. Outside, you hear the noise of mechanical whirring shudder and stall to a sudden halt, followed by a loud bang that sounds suspiciously like the sound of a generator bursting into flames and exploding. You pray to god that it wasn’t the sound of a generator bursting into flames and exploding.

A short trip to the circular window carved into the mausoleum back wall unfortunately confirms that yes, it was the sound of a generator bursting into flames and exploding. Smoking shards of metal lie strew across the grass before your gaze, and you can make out the shape of the generator’s broken, melting husk within a flickering pillar of flame. A curse passes your lips, squinting as the fire’s glaring light forces tears to bud up in the corners of your eyes. Sweat rolls down your brow, and you notice how much warmer the stone room has become.

There’s movement behind you. You look over your shoulder just in time to see the pedestal playing host to your laptop slide aside to reveal a hatch in the floor, with a ladder descending down into the dark.

You let out a breath, then gather your scattered possessions and slide them in your sylladex. The tree of cards organizes itself neatly and stores its contents away for later retrieval. Looking back down into the dark, you smile slightly.

“Alright then, Ampora. Let’s see where the rabbit hole leads us.”

Without another glance around, you make your descent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dave is tricky to write, man. I'm still getting a hang of it.
> 
> Anyways, I thought it would be pertinent to let y'all in on the plan. I'm hoping to upload a new chapter of WTPSWD each week on Friday, though there's no set time frame on when in the day it'll be. I've got a few chapters worth of backlog written already, so hopefully I'll be able to stick with it. Either way, I hope you all liked this chapter- 'cause next week, we're going to hanging out with someone a liiiiittle different from dear Miss Lalonde. ;)
> 
> Seeya next Friday!  
> -Sleepy-9000


	3. Blood on Suits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's Chapter Three, everyone. We're stepping away from Rose's POV for a moment- worry not, she's still the main character. But I wouldn't be able to show you guys the full span of the story with just one character at the controls. I really enjoyed writing this as well, I hope you all enjoy reading it. :)

Your name is Diamonds Droog, and you have just begun to make your descent.

Shards of broken glass surround you, glimmering a vibrant green as light reflects off of their translucent surfaces. As perception blurs and a single second stretches out into seeming eternity, you quietly take note of how much more elegant that gaudy window looks in thousands of tiny, airborne splinters. The destruction itself is not the core of its newfound beauty for you- that was more of the boss’s style. In this moment of fractured time all you see is a fine emerald rain of falling shrapnel, surrounding you in a veil of lime dust and razor crystals.

That’s all you see outside the blinding flash of the explosion burned into your retinas and the blood taking flight from Itchy’s freshly concave torso, to be more precise. About damn time one of you bumped that caffeine junkie.

Six nights ago, the boss left your hideout at half past seven. Same time on the same night as he left every week, without change. He never said where he was wandering off to when he did- or at least, he never told the truth. You always knew better than to bother him about it, but the two lugs you worked with didn’t. They’d always needle the bastard, asking the same old questions like a pair of gumshoes with memory disorders. Clubs honestly didn’t know where the boss was going, bless the poor sap, but Hearts did. You could see it in his squinty little eyes, the smirk he always had on his mug when Spades put on his hat and made for the door. Hearts knew damn well the dame the boss was goin’ off to see. Just wanted to hear those two syllables leave Spade’s teeth. The lummox never grew out of his love for a good romance, not after all these years. As for the boss himself… he came up with excuses. Terrible ones.

“Goin’ to a bar.”

“Need a new blade for this next job.”

“Shaddap.”

“Ask yourself ‘dat next time you EAT THE FUCKING TABLE, BOXCARS.”

“Droog needs smokes.” (You did.)

“Gotta pump some metal into the stool-pigeon on Sixth Street, saw that son of a bitch gettin’ cozy with a couple a’ green torsos last night, swear to God if he told ‘em about the Casino tunnel I’ll tear ‘im to pieces with my bare hands...”

“Screw off, I’m done with poker tonight.”

“FITTIN’ YOU CHUMPS FOR CHICAGO OVERCOATS, THAT’S WHERE I’M FUCKING GOIN-”

You never lifted an eyebrow. The excuses weren’t for you. Spades was full aware you were in the know about him and the broad. You had been back when she wore a crown and his name was Jack, and the only time you took pause about it was when he and the kid announced that the crew was sending her into exile. Guess all that did in the end was make the two of them hate each other even more, and land the rest of you in the city Spades built up out of spite and boredom. Both of which were fine with you. Just damn fine. The boss headin’ off alone to mash kissers with the enemy? Ain’t nothing to be worried over. Ain’t nothing at all.

Then, six nights ago, she appeared out of the dark at 8 PM sharp and deposited the boss’s arms on the table in front of you. And you aren’t talkin’ about the military-sized stockpile of bladed weapons likely still hidden somewhere on his limbless torso. Deuce and Boxcars were too stunned to even do anything before she slipped away. But you?

She looked you dead in the eye. Congratulated you on the promotion. 

Time started to crawl back to its normal pace as the ringing left your ears. It was replaced by the sound of wind whistling past and muffled shouts from above. You give a fleeting wonder to how many you took out with the explosion- Itchy for sure, and there’s no way in hell Doze got his slow ass out of the blast radius in time. Clover probably dodged the whole thing like lucky little shit he is. The back of your right hand aches behind you, wrists still tied to the chair they sat you in for “interrogation”. You grimace, trying to not remember the number branded into your carapace. If you survive this fall, that sick little dewdropper better stick your pin in his pathetic doll and keep it there until time ends and space collapses in on itself.

It won’t save him, but it’ll make it easier for you to leave him for last. 

Glancing over your shoulder, you observe that the ground is rapidly closing in on you. Or perhaps you are closing in on it. Deciding that it won’t matter which is correct if you shatter into fragments of supple black shell and thick red paste on impact, you kick your ankles down into the framework of the chair. You never properly mastered air control back on Derse, but if you can get the chair under you before you land, you imagine the odds of you cracking like an egg dropped on pavement should fall at least slightly into your favor.

Five nights ago, you dragged a new table into the hideout to replace the one Boxcars destroyed in his grieving rampage. Shoving another box of tissues into Deuce’s arms, you had sat down and taken a moment to regain your poise before presenting the plan to destroy the Felt once and for all. One last job for the boss. For Slick. For Jack.

Four nights ago, all of the Midnight Crew’s resources were compiled before you. You had all but emptied every safe, bank account, cache, suitcase and shoebox you could find of dough and funneled it into new gear. Bombs, pistols, rifles, clubs, axes, flashbangs, bullets, even a flamethrower for Deuce. Boxcars had asked what the hell you had planned for after the mission now that the money was all gone. You told him that there was no plan. After the mission was done, there wouldn’t be anywhere to spend money anyways. There wouldn’t be anywhere left at all. He had stared at you for a moment, then added her picture to the lineup of targets. You put an playing card into the band of your hat- the Ace of Spades.

Three nights ago, Deuce had looked at you confused surprise in his eyes as a bomb went off in his hands. It flattened half the mansion and buried an army of idiots holding kitchen implements under a mountain of bright green rubble alongside him. You added the Ace of Clubs to your hat and watched the sun rise as you and Boxcars agreed to the fact that neither of you had cried.

Two nights ago, minigun shells littered the viridian carpet of the main foyer. Deuce’s flamethrower was used to set Quarter's corpse ablaze, and you shot the man who appeared in the flames to investigate. You told Boxcars that you’d kill the rest, and he died with lead in his chest and a grin on his face. You had gritted your teeth and pressed on. Ace of Hearts.

Last night, Itchy and Cans sat you down and tied your hands behind you. A crowbar lifted your hat off your head, and the green figure wielding it inspected the cards tucked into the band. Crowbar looked at you for a long moment, a sort of conflicted understanding mixed into the frigid resentment that filled his pale eyes. The hat was placed back onto your head, and he called over a fidgeting man in a green top hat. You had almost smirked when Die was assigned to interrogate you, despite it all. The ropes holding you in place would be free and the coward would be hiding in another timeline as you killed his friends within the hour, you were certain of that.

Twelve hours ago, the number six was seared into your carapace. He had almost looked disappointed when you didn’t scream.

About a minute and a half ago, Doze dropped a playing card. Unnoticed by the other green morons arguing beside you, it fluttered down before your feet. King of Clubs. A small, sweet voice that you’d never heard before spoke in your mind as Doze sluggishly stepped forward to pick it up. It had a slight lilt to it, as if spoken in an accent from a place far away from Midnight City and its bloodstained gutters. Her tone was equal parts apprehensive and sympathetic. 

“You seem to be on the back foot, Mister Diamonds… I don’t think those cruel gentlemen in green would be in good sorts if you kicked that wee explosive their way, do you?”

No. You didn’t think they would be at all.

The chair snaps and splinters underneath you, shards of wood joining the layer of emerald glass that litters the ground encircling your position. You suck air desperately back into the lungs that had been emptied by force of impact, entire body aching and reeling from shock. For a moment you merely stare up into the sky, blindly gazing towards the desolate world you had landed on so many years ago.

The voice returns, clearer this time. It almost sounds like a child, gentle and quiet- but filled with a sort of compelling determination that echoes through your mind in a manner impossible to ignore. “C’mon then, dearie. Up and at ‘em!” You grit your teeth and force your arms against the earthy ground. Your chest feels as if it’s about to collapse, and your legs are a dead weight under you. The pain is shut out and locked away as you push yourself up and stand. 

“There isn’t much time, love… his hoodlums will be along soon to find you, and I’m afraid you’re in to condition for yet another tussle!”

She’s right. Even if you hadn’t fallen out of that window, all your weapons are in the gloves of their tailor. He’ll be the first one you hit when you come back. Ignoring the taste of blood in your mouth, your eyes sweep around. A moment later you force your feet forward, reaching down to pick up the upturned hat.

“They’ll be searching for you in your base, Mister Diamonds. Going back is, unfortunately, off the table.” The cards are still there. That’s all that matters now. Straightening, you shove the hat back in place as the voice continues on in her hurried, encouraging tone. “You’ll need to find another place to heal. Luckily for us, I think you have a place that not even that dreadful queen has caught onto the location of!” A grim smirk crosses your face. Girl knows her stuff. Even if you’re losing your mind, at least you’re losing it in a pleasant, helpful manner. Trudging forward, you decide to consider the ramifications of hearing voices when there aren’t armed gunmen chasing you down.

“But if nothing else, do keep one very important thing in mind, love.”

And what’s that, kid?

“Despite it all, you are still alive!”

You decide that tonight might not be the worst night of your life, afterall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had like 3 tabs open with 20's gangster slang for reference while writing this, y'all don't even know.
> 
> By the way, if y'all are interested I have a Tumblr blog that you can find right here: http://sleepy-9000.tumblr.com/ It's mostly a tornado of shitposting from various fandoms, but if you wanna track me down that's where to do it. I always post a link whenever a new chapter of WTPSWD goes up, and I try to keep the content pretty relaxed and light. I don't mind either way if you follow me or anything, but I just thought it would be pertinent to supply to y'all.
> 
> Also, I wanted to thank you all for over 100 hits. I barely expected to break past the fifteen hit mark- I'm seriously blown away. Thank you all so much for reading, and I hope to keep the content rolling out best I can at the pace it's at. 
> 
> Have a great day everyone. :)  
> -Sleepy


	4. The Grand Keyboard Battle of 2009

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And back to Rose. Don't worry, we'll be revisiting DD soon- for now, there's some friendly squabbling to be done and some mansions to burn. This one's a lil shorter, but we're on the verge of some very big things. :)

Sighing wistfully, you pause a moment to look down at your work. The process was long and difficult, with the utmost care and tactical planning required to achieve success. John’s humble abode has been vastly expanded upward, surpassing any previous expectations or imaginings of the structure’s true potential. Rooms have been duplicated, prefabricated designs utilized, supports placed and platforms deployed. A pale spire of suburban design meets the pulsing cyan spirograph that forms John’s first gate, finally allowing your friend access to the full expanses of his quest. You really ought to seek compensation from your bespectacled companion. A renovation of this scale would cost millions even before all the red tape to be granted permit to erect such a monument. Even the brainless pitch monstrosities dressed in jester’s apparel appreciate the artistry of your constructions- they’re literally crawling all over it in appreciation. And in an attempt to reach John. Mostly in an attempt to reach John.

Alright, it’s a mess. You were rushing, and it’ll do to allow John to progress. Besides, your grist stores are sadly not reflected on your vocabulary. Even if you wanted to make the structure more elegant, you simply lack the supplies required.

Turning away from your computer screen, you notice with a sense of growing anxiety that the atmosphere of your room has grown significantly more arid since you began your construction project. A glance over your shoulder confirms your suspicions- the glass of your bedroom window has become a mural of spitting, enraged flame. Rising from your chair, your bite your lip and cautiously approach the flickering visage. The room is filled with a dull burgundy glow, and as you draw closer the haunting aroma of charred wood and cinder reaches out to your nose. You stand in awe on your bed, watching as fire climbs past your window, surging higher and higher with every passing moment. 

You needn’t have traveled to the precipice of danger. The inferno that raged in its belly has come to you itself.

But then, poetry will not keep you alive.

Vodka Mutini glances sleepily up at you, four small eyes blinking as you return to your laptop. You spare a moment to envy their seeming indifference to the rapidly approaching fate of premature cremation; you imagine such a mindset would be far more relaxing than the one you’ve been forced to assume. A grimace of frustration spreads across your face as you see a pronounced lack of deep crimson notifications appearing in your Pesterchum window. Confirmation that progress towards ensuring your survival is indeed being pursued by the elusive Dave Strider would have done wonders for your mood. Instead all that’s in its place is-

You suck in a breath. This silliness will not help anyone. If anyone has answers, it’s him. You need to talk to him about all these disasters immediately. You have done this hundreds, thousands of times before- why should anything change now? In all honesty, you should be pleased to hear from your friend again, and in all honesty you are. Because he is your friend, and that relationship is important to you and should not be marred by such frivolous and immature emotions as this. It’s unbecoming and frankly rather embarrassing to deal with. You are Rose Lalonde, for fuck’s sake, get your act together. 

So you do. You sit up straight, pat down your hair, set your eyes and put your fingers to the keyboard.

\-- caligulasAquarium [CA] began trolling tentacleTherapist [TT] \--

CA: so ter tells me that your hivve is on fire noww wwhich let me tell you wwas a wwhole lot funnier to her than i wwas to me  
CA: i dont evven understand the source of amusement in that type of revvelation and you knoww howw morbid my twwisted sense of humor is  
CA: so thats one thing wwe got in common at least  
CA: wwe bein me and all the other people wwho dont understand wwhere she gets her giggles from  
CA: that group bein made up of oh yknoww  
CA: EVVERYBODY  
CA: all the fuckin bodies  
CA; oh goddamnit noww im givvin myself deja vvu  
CA: and not the good kind wwhere you think you already drank all your soda but no theres one lonely can left standin there for you  
CA: im talkin wwhere your BAD SHIT radar starts beepin  
CA: youre sittin there in your submarine and then fuckin shit here comes a memory torpedo  
CA: no idea wwhere it is but its comin and you knoww itll fuck up your day  
CA: okay stupid metaphor goddamn aquatic bullshit  
CA: ros are you evven listenin to me or am i broadcastin into the vvoid here

You pause to marvel at his tirade, rife with a signature theatricality that you vaguely remember finding obnoxious a long, long time ago. He truly is the most ridiculous person you’ve ever met. The roar of fire has become mere background noise, the fear it mongers hushed into silence by Eridan's messages.

TT: I’m here.  
TT: It just felt like I would be doing both of us a disservice by interrupting such a beautiful rant.  
TT: Usually you don’t get past a few lines before losing steam and beginning to make inquiries about my presence.  
TT: Are you certain you haven’t been speaking with Dave? Solitary monologues this level of grandeur are very much his style.  
CA: oh good you havvent been fuckin charbroiled yet that brightens up my day  
CA: and no i havvent been chattin with that outrageous coolkid bloodkin of yours  
CA: you knoww it too sorry but i aint buyin it i knoww yer too smart to forget somethin like this  
TT: Fine. I concede in face of your backhanded flattery.  
TT: Whatever enigmatic individual provided you with such a limited form of communication must have a very skewed idea of what “helping” entails.  
CA: yeah that sounds about right to me some pusbrained jackass steps outta the shadowws hands me a laptop and wwhispers  
CA: hey heres a useless piece a shit ww no vviewwport also you can only talk to one fuckin person good luck  
CA: jokes on you philistine i got the one person outta the asshole bin wwhos wworth my goddamn time  
CA: okay i found it on the ground but wwhatEVVER  
TT: So not a complete loss, all things considered. Though I have to wonder why getting a replacement is so out of the question for you.  
TT: Guess you just can’t get enough of me.  
CA: yeah wwell no shit youre like my only friend

You refuse to notice the quiet wave of disappointment in your chest at that particular response. He is your friend. That relationship is important to you.

CA: excludin ter and baron teeth and the latter aint exactly one for intellectual fuckin discussion  
CA: little asshole just wwants to cheww on shit mostly my old gun wwhich is fine im not usin that legendary piece of shit anymore anywways  
TT: Well, I’m glad you have us at least.  
TT: Given the nature of your situation, people watching your back can only help.  
TT: Or smelling it, I suppose. You’ll need to have her explain exactly how her vision works to me in the near future.  
TT: Such acute synesthesia is exceedingly rare, according to my sources.  
CA: SM3LL1NG 1S R3ALLY ONLY HALF OF 1T  
CA: BY THE WAY YOU TAST3 L1k3 lav3ND3R B3RRY lll3monaD3 >; ]  
TT: Good information to know.  
CA: alsO 3R1D4N SL33PS W1THH STUFF3D LUS11 L1K3 A WR1GGLEREKJFijds;  
CA: dfii5nsajd22  
CA: sn554vnxjuwhuubjskdlkaslj94dnjwnqq  
TT: I’ll wait until you two are done wrestling for the keyboard. Please, take your time.  
CA: njkniee  
CA:dfdfkkgfnfjorn,,xd099eij2  
CA: ewr89ejdsnfslkk  
CA: 888888888  
CA: okay FUCK one sec  
TT: If only you had let me know this spar would’ve occurred in advance.  
TT: Popcorn would be fantastic right now.

The sound of an explosion tears across the house, prompting you to jump a bit in your seat and make a rather undignified noise in response. In a moment the spell cast on you by Eridan’s antics shatters, ruggedly punctuated by a resurgence of looming peril blitzing your mind. You suck in a breath of hot air, then turn back to the screen. 

TT: On second thought I’d prefer if we hurried this along.  
TT: As genuinely amusing as your quarrels with your blind companion are, I fear there are more pressing manners at hand.  
TT: Namely, my house being on fire.  
TT: So, any contextual information liable for passage through Terezi’s fate filter that could help in this situation would be greatly appreciated.  
TT: Preferably soon. Or now.  
TT: Being crushed under an avalanche of charred construction material is not how I’d like my day to come to a close.

There’s no response outside a stagnant chat window and noises you hope are caused by the destruction of your mother’s remaining alcohol stores.

TT: … Eridan.  
TT: This isn’t a good time for another disappearing act. I have enough concerns filling my mind as it is.

A few moments later, another name begins flashing in your chumroll. Despite it all you let out a sigh of relief and manage a slight smile, fingers beginning to move rapidly across the keyboard.

TG: alright im installing this game finally  
TT: Where doing this man?  
TG: yeah  
TG: you could almost say  
TG: where making this  
TT: Go on.  
TT: What is it where making this?  
TG: TRANSPIRE  
TT: Excellent.  
TT: Let's make shit take place.  
But as you watch a fluctuating spirograph cycle through psychedelic colors above Sburb’s loading bar, a new line of violet text crops up in the background. Giving it a glance, your eyes resume monitoring the download process- then widen and turn back to the single, short message. Your heart lurches to an ugly, sudden halt, and the chills that race through you are undeterred by the growing heat of your room.

CA: someone found me

\-- caligulasAquarium [CA] is now an idle chum! --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't get the cool sunglasses emoji Dave uses at the end to work. >:/ If anyone knows how to get image files to behave in HTML, give me a shout and I'll fix that up in a jiffy.
> 
> But yeah, Chapter 4. We're finally getting out of the fire and into the game. I'm pretty excited about the next Rose chapter; not to give too many spoilers, but it should shine a little light on Eridan's situation in a neato lil' dramatic-irony fashion. Next week will be another peek from a different perspective, and after that we'll have our main cast of POVs set for Part One of Woolen Armour. 
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy!  
> -Sleepy-9000


	5. A Thousand and Seven Alternian Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5!!! This one was close call, sorry for the late upload guys. Enjoy!!

Sand crunches beneath your shoes. You focus on the sound, preferring it to the incessant displeased muttering coming from the group trailing you. Twin moons shine above, bright orbs of color clashing against both each other and the deep, pitch backdrop they hang in. Staring upward, you squint at the rich green satellite. It peers back down at you, emerald surface littered with craters and mountains. You spend half a moment searching its terrain for the structures where the Doc makes his home, then spend the second half of said moment reminding yourself that you couldn’t care less about seeing where the cocky bastard lives. 

The desert sands tint a shade towards the giant rock’s hue, the light reflecting off of it providing just enough visibility to make out the tall figure leading you and the lugs through the dunes. Not that you're complaining. Better than getting roasted alive by the megaton sun. Mister White-words had mentioned a girl who had stayed out in the day somewhere in his marathon exposition about why it was so goddamn important to walk through the desert. Got manipulated by some huge bitch into staring into the sun ‘til her skin was burned to scars and her eyes gave out. You had asked what species of idiot would just stand there and burn. That earned you one hell of a look from the dame now carving a path in front of you. The Doc’s response suddenly seemed a lot less important after that. First time in memory that she’s taken a second to listen to what you’ve got to say, and you push her opinion of you even deeper into the gutter. And you aren’t exaggerating with that. It’s your job to remember seconds. Every single one.

Your name is Crowbar. You are the hard-nosed, square-shouldered, spare-the-lip and shoot-from-the-hip leader of a notorious timebending criminal organization known as The Felt. 

Well, third in command. Which currently delegates you to leading the green bozos who haven’t been shot, blown up, or set on fire yet across the sands of a long-dead planet. Or least making sure they don’t get lost or eat any rocks while you follow her to wherever the hell she’s leading you all. Last you checked none of the morons had acquired a sudden taste for condensed sediment, but frankly, you wouldn’t put anything past them. In your personal opinion, half of these pinheads couldn’t find their way out of an unlocked room if you put their mitts on the doorknob.

Then again, around half of them aren’t doing any thinkin’ at all right now. You had Cans drag the bodies ‘round back before you left. Even if they had a load of bricks in their skulls instead of grey matter, they deserved that small bit of respect. You don’t know what the boss is gunna do when he finds out, but you’ll be sure to stay far clear of the blast radius. If there’s nothing else about working under Scratch that you like, it’s the fact that when something fucks up, he already knows. Won’t stop him from making you report back to him about everything like the egotistical asshole he is, but the cold smugness is a lot easier to handle than a tantrum that could destroy planets. And that ain’t being hyperbolic. You’ve seen it before. Practically how you met the guy. And even if you haven’t seen him in the flesh for a while, you know he’s here. That’s all he ever is.

You glance back at the group trailing behind, and your reflexive headcount ends a lot earlier than what you’re used to. A small part of your mind wonders where “here” is right about now.

Then Clover catches your eye and starts dancing. You groan and face back forward. Lucky lil’ smut machine’s got no sense of goddamn timing at all. 

Miss Eight’s figure suddenly loses its viridian sheen, fading to a black silhouette that vanishes into the night. You start, grip on your crowbar tightening as your eyes flick around the dunes. Sure enough, her footprints end abruptly a few yards in front of you. The murmurs behind you gain a tone of confused worry and you set your jaw. After a few moments a tiny flame winks into life, burning to a low ember as a cigarette catches light. You grimace at the sighs of relief from behind. The broad wouldn’t bat an eye if you and your lot were offed this second, but she’ll be damned before sacrificing a moment of theatricality. Turning to face your followers, you jerk your crowbar in the direction of her cigarette light. They hesitate a moment, then start filing forward. For once you can’t blame them for bein’ sluggish- as much as you… respect the dame, you’ve never managed to speak her name. Holding eye contact is enough for your humble palate, thank you very much.

Fin’s the first to move past, naturally. You could tell he was fidgeting the whole damn way here to take the lead. And you mean that in a literal sense- he knows damn well that’s your job and respects it. One of a small group that never made a real fuss over takin’ orders from you, he is. That’s not to say he’s got the sense to keep his hands clean of time shenanigans or wouldn’t approach a Rubik's cube teeth-first, but it’s better than the nonsense half of these maroons give you. He slinks past with a toothy grin, cracking his knuckles. You never had the ability or interest to wrap your head around the specific brand of temporal magic he practices, but if you know the guy- which you do- he’s busying himself with the decision of which tangerine path before him to sink his fangs into. It’s the same as every mission you take him on, and the reason he was so restless riding backseat. The guy might not be heaviest hitter under your command, but you’d take wits over muscle every damn time it’s offered to you. And when it comes to scouting, Fin cannot be beat. He is simply the best there is. 

Number Four and Number Ten are next. The little guy’s cheerfully chattering away to the butterball like he doesn’t have a care in the world, practically draggin’ him along through the sand. Sawbuck’s just drinking it in with a big dopey smile on his face. You roll your eyes as they sidle past, waving your crowbar dismissively. Whatever relationship Clover’s working with Big Eater ain’t gunna last- there’s hardly enough social tact between the two to introduce yourself with. That ain’t none of your business either way, and you know that it won’t stop the munchkin from trying. If he put half the effort he devotes to flirting and making riddles into actual crimes, he’d be unstoppable. He’s already practically unkillable, to add icing on the cake. You sniff. Whatever. Not worth your damn time to try and convince him to act different. If nothing else, putting him next to the second-thickest meat shield you’ve got makes a better wall. Right now, you could use all the luck you can get.

The first-thickest meat shield you’ve got stomps along behind them, smirking down at you as he passes with a single stride. Stepping back, you narrowly avoid losing your hat as a massive hand in fingerless gloves passively swings with his gait. If Cans feels your glare on his back, he doesn’t make a show of it. Just keeps on walking. You cross your arms, hardly noticing Stitch step by with a look on his face that perfectly communicates how much he wants to be in the middle of a massive desert. The giant’s got the grace of a steamroller and brains to match. _Muscle._

It’s only when the sound of breathing is suddenly in your ear does that particular train of thought derail. And when it does the oil stores burst halfway down the line of cars, sending all the commercial transport behind it to kingdom come. You promptly avenge the metaphorical souls lost in said tragic disaster by striking Die across the face with your crowbar. There’s a lot you will and already have put up with from these idiots, but one of them getting close enough to taste you without direct fucking permission is far beyond your bullshit-tolerance level. It doesn’t help when this specific freakshow has spent every shared moment between the two of you grinding that level down. Whatever the irony is in you sharing a birthright with this creep, you ain’t laughing. Humor isn’t your thing. 

Die hits the deck like a sack full of monkeys. Limbs waving about, throwing sand up everywhere as some godawful gibberish starts pouring from his mouth. The fellas halfway to her position up the dune look back, then continue on their way. Stuff like this ain’t exactly uncommon with Top Hat. The only real surprising part of this whole song and dance left is the fact that he still acts like it’s the first time it’s ever happened to him, every damn time. A snicker sounds from behind you as the moron scrambles back to his feet and takes off after the others, waving his doll back at you like he’s trying to ward away vampires. 

Your eyes meet his as he glances over his shoulder, and for half a second you think you see flashing colors. Red metal feels cold in your fist. Maybe the Doc had a point calling you over when the meeting was done afterall.

Nah. Baldy’s just playing mindgames like he always is. You ain’t falling for it.

If you insist, Mister Seven.

Yeah. You do. 

“Boss. She’s waiting.” A much more solid, far less conceptually confusing voice breaks the reverie. It’s the one belonging to the snicker you’d heard a few moments before, and more specifically belonging to the self-appointed caboose of Every Single Fucking Mission He Goes On. Trace tips his hat as he strolls by, obviously not caring about how much of a tool it makes him look like. The shit-eating grin tells you well enough that he knows exactly what went down between you and the Doc. You respond with a look that reminds him what just happened to Die, but he just laughs and keeps walking. The snoop knows where literally everyone’s been at and what they were doin’ there, which loses a lot of its novelty real damn fast when he decides to use it on his allies instead of your enemies. Muttering a few choice words under your breath, you take off in the trails made by Trace’s twin coattails dragging through the sand. Stitch’ll have have his head on a stick for that.

When you reach the top of Giant Pile of Sand #6570 and push past the group of chartreuse meatbags perched atop it, the dame is stood waiting in front of them. She glances down at you, cigarette holder between her lips burning a low flame in the dark. The glow lights her face and makes her dark shimmer. It’s only when she looks back down the slope before her that you realize you were staring. And that she was full fucking aware of it. You look down at your shoes, silently wishing the sun would rise and fry you on the spot. 

With a flick of the wrist, the tip of her lance buries itself in the sand. The group watches as sand shifts around its spike, streaming down the slope and trailing off below. Then Clover starts squealing something and hopping in place, tugging Sawbuck’s pant leg and pointing a tiny finger down at something risin’ outta the dark and desert. All the others start raising a racket to ask what he’s seeing, but you just stare on. You already can tell what the little guy saw.

Buried halfway under the crimson sand is the biggest skull you’ve ever seen in your entire life. Two huge, hollow oval eyesockets stare blankly up at you, a nasal cavity twice your height submerged in the desert. Two dark spires rise up from its sides, horns that could split you in half with a single swipe. Between them, worn away and defaced by exposure, is a symbol- some sort of cross-shaped house structure split into twelve parts. The thing looms out of the shadows at you, daunting and inviting in a way that makes your skin crawl.

You turn to the dame in black with a hundred questions on your tongue that all die in the night air, unanswered. Only traces she was ever here are a pair of footprints, a pile of cigarette ashes and the handle of her lance poking out of the sand. It sits there like an accusation, and you grimace at it in response. 

Returning your gaze to the monolith ahead, you step forward onto the slope and leave the weapon behind. If she’s not going to trouble herself with you, then you might as well return the goddamn favor. Those words ring in your head, a much nicer sound than that of Die trying to clamber over Stitch and taking a mannequin to the face for the trouble. A rush of displaced sand and a loud _whump_ tells you that Sawbuck’s made his first stumble of many for this particular descent, and Trace’s snickering is cut short by a booming laugh from Cans. Fin slips past you, hunched forward with his snout trained on a path only he can see. 

You almost smile. Whatever it is the Doc wants you out here for, you get the feeling it’s going to be a long night. And that’s just damn fine with you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the Felt. They're all idiots and I love them.
> 
> And with that we have all three POV's for Part One of Woolen Armor! I plan on alternating between Crowbar and Droog for every other chapter, with Rose taking up the other 50% of the narrative. I'm really excited to get things in full swing!! I hope y'all enjoyed this chapter, because it was hells of fun to write.
> 
> -Sleepy-9000


	6. P3RSON OF 1NT3R3ST

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6! Sorry for the late upload, I hope y'all enjoy!

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering caligulasAquarium [CA] \-- 

TT: So.  
TT: Under the working assumption that you aren’t dead, I thought you’d like an update.  
TT: With the desired result being that when you make your triumphant return and verify previously noted working assumption, I’ll have less explaining to do.  
TT: Spare me the commentary pertaining the fact that I’m more or less talking to myself at this point. While it’s good and fun to accuse each other of taking after Dave, you haven’t exactly given me much choice here.  
TT: I have now entered the Medium.  
TT: My entry process wasn’t the smoothest, I’ll admit. But given the circumstances, I think I handled the situation rather well.  
TT: It’s not every evening a girl leaps down a waterfall while flaming tornadoes and falling meteors bear down on her home.  
TT: Also, my cat is alive again. I suppose this is what you meant when you said mourning for him was “totally fuckin irrelevvant”.  
TT: While your tact was lacking, points for accuracy, I guess.  
TT: I have arrived in a place primarily defined by the amount of water it plays host to, and said water’s iridescent luminosity.  
TT: I’ve yet to look into the source of such a peculiar glowing quality.  
TT: If nothing else, I’ll concede to finding it aesthetically appealing.  
TT: I anticipated a much gloomier environment to await me, given my interests. This is a rather pleasant surprise.  
TT: A less pleasant one took form in the apparent abandonment my mother has recently committed.  
TT: Her martini glass was left on a dock I discovered. Judging by the loose rope beside it, I presume she’s taken the boat it belongs to and gone to one of the nearby islands.  
TT: Whatever. I’m sure she’ll be fine. I know I can handle myself at this point, so I’m not exactly worried about being alone here.  
TT: A calm, reassuring voice in my mind told me she’s doing what’s best for me. I’ll take that as validation that I’ve officially been pushed out of the nest and am expected to fly.  
TT: I don’t plan on hitting the ground.  
TT: Also, there are voices in my brain. That’s certainly a thing.  
TT: While I’ve never really appreciated the representation schizophrenics receive in media and pop culture, the theatrical quality of it is no longer lost on me.  
TT: I spoke to John briefly. Apparently your colleagues have begun their obnoxiously saccharine trolling campaign against us.  
TT: To be honest, I’m rather excited.  
TT: Your characterizations of these individuals have been colorful, to say the least. I’m anxious to see how they match up to the genuine experience.  
TT: The tastes I’ve received in the past were amusing, but they lacked substance. Hopefully, this round will be more of a challenge.  
TT: That’s a loaded sentence for you, but I digress.  
TT: As for more general things, Strider has managed to deploy the game constructs I provided John with around my house.  
TT: With the items in immediate accessibility, the looming alchemization montage I’m about to take part in should be… interesting.  
TT: The gates have appeared above my house as they have for John’s. As have the imps and other monsters.  
TT: I’ll be keeping more detailed notes in my walkthrough guide.  
TT: Speaking of the imps, I’ve noticed something interesting about their physical features.  
TT: At first I dismissed it as a mere passing resemblance, but as I see more and more variety being added as a result of our prototyping, the “base model” of an imp has come into focus.  
TT: Given a color scheme adjustment and a few different prototyping sources, the combatants I’ve been facing bear a striking similarity to

Another Pesterchum window pops up. You move to close it, but as your mouse hovers over the exit button you catch a glimpse of the few lines that have already been typed out. A hundred questions spring into your mind, chased by a wave of relief and confused anxiety. Staring at the text a few moments longer, you return to your original conversation-

TT: Hold that thought.

-before returning to the interruption. A cold, curling sensation rises in your gut as you reread the messages. It is, in of itself, a defiance of what Eridan’s told you. Your eyes narrow at the screen. Is this… a joke?

 

\-- gallowsCalibrator [GC] began trolling tentacleTherapist [TT] \--

GC: H3Y L4LOND3  
GC: STOP CRY1NG 1N YOUR MOMS B3V3R4G3  
GC: SH3 H4T3S YOU 4ND H4S L3FT YOU FOR3V3R  
GC: H3H3H3H >8D

If it is, it’s not a very funny one. You reach forward, beginning a response. He had said her sense of humor was twisted, but if this was the standard she sets herself to that was a grave understatement. Given his tendency for theatrics, you didn’t think him capable of such a thing. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s blown your expectations, but this is a rather cruel method of topping oneself.

TT: So you’ve decided to switch over to your own Chumhandle as opposed to further attempts at hijacking Eridan’s?  
TT: That’s too bad. Your skirmishes were rather amusing.  
TT: But hey, speaking of things that aren’t stupid and pointless,  
TT: Are you two alright, Terezi? Did he find you?

Okay, fine. The laugh’s on you. Good one, Terezi. Bad joke addressed and moved past. Blunt as it was, you think that you’ve pushed the conversation back in a constructive direction. If this girl’s half as smart as your exterrestrial companion claims, she’ll pick up on it and drop the a-

GC: >:o  
GC: WH4T?!  
GC: HOW DO YOU KNOW MY N4M3?  
GC: HOW DO YOU KNOW 3R1D4N’S N4M3??  
GC: UGHHHH YOU H4V3 GOT TO B3 K1DD1NG M3 TH1S 1S NOT TH3 PL4N 4T 4LL >:[

Oh, what in the fuck.

TT: … You can’t be serious.  
GC: 1 4M!  
GC: YOU SHOULDN’T KNOW MY N4M3 4T TH1S PO1NT  
GC: TH1S 1S TH3 F1RST T1M3 1V3 M3SS4G3D YOU 4ND 4LL TH4T T1M3L1N3 JUMP1NG G1V3S M3 4 H34D4CH3  
TT: Right.  
TT: Time aliens. How could I forget.

Mostly because the central time alien you converse with has progressed through temporal continuity at the exact consistency and rate that you determinedly human friends have been for over a year. Details, details.

TT: Fine.  
TT: I will momentarily humor your questionable claims to be detached from time’s natural progression via a mystifying communication program.  
TT: Consider my disbelief officially suspended.  
TT: Though let us both keep in mind while moving forward from this point that I am only doing so due to the fact that you are my best and only tangible lead to uncovering information on a rather concerning situation a mutual acquaintance of ours has apparently found himself in.  
TT: And that if you remain dedicated to your persona of perspective ignorance while a more viable source of information and support becomes available, I won’t hesitate to abandon this conversation.  
GC: GOD WOW YOU T4LK 4 LOT  
GC: TH4T W4S 4 L4V3ND3R 4ROM4T1C W4RH34D YOU JUST D3PLOY3D ON MY POOR SC3NT SPONG3  
GC: YOU MONST3R >:[  
TT: Yes, yes. You smell colors. This has been established.  
TT: Or hasn’t, from your perspective.  
GC: D4MN1T!  
GC: D1D 3R1D4N G1V3 4W4Y 3V3RYTH1NG?!  
GC: OF COURS3 H3 D1DNT TH4T WOULD B3 STUP1D  
TT: To be honest with you, no, he hasn’t.  
TT: He’s been sort of frustratingly cryptic lately. Apparently by your own design.  
TT: Timeline preservation was the goal, to my vague understanding.  
GC: W3LL TH4T SOUNDS 4BOUT R1GHT  
GC: THOUGH 1F 1M B31NG HON3ST W1TH YOU  
GC: YOU R34LLY H4V3 NO 1D34 HOW D33P TH3 P4R4DOX14L HORS3SH1T W3R3 TR34D1NG THROUGH GO3S  
GC: YOU 4R3 UP TO YOUR P4TH3T1C HUMAN 3Y3S 4LR34DY 4ND YOU H4V3NT 3V3N NOT1C3D!!  
TT: Oh?  
TT: Care to enlighten me, dear knowledgeable one?  
GC: H3H3H3  
GC: NOP3 >:]  
TT: Drat.  
TT: And here I thought you were going to be helpful.  
GC: OH 1 W1LL B3  
GC: BUT ON A MUCH GR4ND3R SC4L3 TH4N YOU R34LIZ3!  
TT: Of course. Your mechanizations are far beyond my feeble human comprehension.  
TT: I’m sure I wouldn’t even understand if you explained it to me.  
TT: Right?  
GC: NO STOP TH4T  
GC: 1LL 4DM1T L4LOND3 YOU C4UGHT M3 OFF GU4RD BY KNOW1NG THOS3 TH1NGS M1ST3R GR4P3 GLOOMCLOUD TOLD YOU  
GC: 1 D1DNT TH1NK H3D T3LL 4NY OF YOU 3V3N H1S OWN N4M3 MUCH L3SS 4NYON3 3LS3S! >:[  
GC: 1 M1GHT NOT KNOW H1M 4S WELL 4S OTH3RS BUT STILL  
TT: Well, you do have a point there. Despite his outgoing nature, he’s proven to be notably paranoid about divulging personal information.  
TT: Though that always seemed to tie into the shadowy threat that’s apparently been plaguing you all.  
GC: UGH NO YOUR3 DO1NG 1T 4G41N  
GC: DO NOT CHANGE THE SUBJ3CT YOU V3RBOS3 PURPLE 3N1GM4 1T W1LL NOT B3 TH4T 34SY TO M1LK M3 FOR 1NFORM4T1ON  
GC: R3G4RDL3SS OF 4NY PSYCHOSTR4T3G13S YOU DR3AM UP OR HOW SOOTH1NGLY P4L4T4BL3 YOUR T3XT MIGHT B3  
TT: I’m not sure where exactly you’re pulling these conspiratorial notions out from, but since you’re so devoted to them I guess I can play along.  
TT: The intellectual gauntlet you’ve thrown down is being picked up. Congratulations.  
GC: Y33333S >:]  
TT: Under the condition that you answer at least some of my questions up front.  
GC: NOOOOOO >:[  
GC: UGH YOU HUM4NS 4R3 1MPOSS1BL3  
GC: F1N3 WH4T3V3R  
GC: BUT FOR NOW  
GC: 1 TH1NK  
GC: 1 W1LL MOV3 FORW4RD 1N TH3 T1M3L1N3  
GC: SO YOUR QU3ST1ONS 4R3 L3SS STUP1D  
TT: Hold on. You haven’t told me anything important yet.  
GC: NOT MY PROBL3M  
GC: THOUGH SP34K1NG OF PROBL3MS  
GC: GOOD LUCK W1TH THOS3 OGR3S  
GC: SUCK3R

\-- gallowsCalibrator [GC] ceased trolling tentacleTherapist [TT] \-- 

You glare down at the dialogue window. That conversation did not improve your opinion of the particular troll involved. But then again, you weren’t being entirely truthful, either. She actually told you quite a few important things.

Closing your laptop, you lean back to stretch. The ocean’s waters flash an array of vibrant colors up at you through the planks of the dock, beams of light shooting off at odd angles. Mutie purrs nearby, batting at your mother’s abandoned wine glass with a furry black paw. Somewhere far away you think you can here the elegant tune of a violin. Turning, you look off across the water towards the nearby islands and recount what you’ve learned.

First, it looks as if the troll group’s claims of temporal detachment might hold some weight afterall. You had always brushed it aside as something not worth your attention- Eridan rarely spoke of it outside a few uncomfortable, non-committal murmurs, and none of the others in his alleged group had a consistent enough presence to seem reputable. But he did, and according to him Terezi understood the apparent weight of his situation enough to take it… as seriously as they could, at least. This time she seemed genuinely unaware of your friend’s condition, and was repeatedly taken off-guard by both your prior knowledge of her and Eridan’s direct connection to said information. Assuming that it wasn’t all an elaborate trolling technique and you’ve been duped hard enough to impress even John himself. Besides all that, the insinuation that something’s wrong with the inherent nature of your session has re-arisen alongside the fresh implication that Terezi both possesses information about said subject and is refusing to share it for some reason.

In all, just more questions needing to be answered. Just what you needed. You scowl at a particularly lumpy island off on the horizon. A roar echoes from the other side of the island and you roll your eyes. Standing up, you pull out your needles and absentmindedly wrap pink wool across their length as your funnel you possessions back into your sylladex. Whatever made that noise sounds a lot bigger that the imps you’ve already dispatched, and despite external evidence those have proven to be far from friendly. It’s hard to imagine that a larger version’s disposition would stray far from that standard.

Someone has to collect the grist. Might as well be you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> L3G1SL4C3R4TOR PYROP3 1S ON TH3 C4S3!
> 
> Chapter 6 down! This is when things are really gunna start to happen. I'm really excited for what I have planned for 'rezi, and next week's chapter as well :) As a side note, I might start posting one-shots on the side for other ships I like- still probably Homestuck, still probably Rose. As much fun as this goliath of a story is, it's nice to do lighter stuff every once in a while. This hopefully shouldn't impact schedules for WTPSWD, and I'm prioritizing this fic over others, but yeah! Should be fun. :D
> 
> See y'all later!  
> -Sleepy-9000


	7. Sandshark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit this fic just got updated I know I'm surprised too

“...Not to be condescending, Mister Diamonds, but you are aware that when it comes to the field of heat retention the colour black excels beyond all others, correct?”

You pull your cloak further up against the raw back of your neck, ragged cloth shielding your carapace from the scalding sunlight above. Yes, you are aware. Better to be slow-cooked over the trip’s course than burned to a cinder on the spot.

“I see. Still, all those extra layers underneath your exile garb can’t be helping, can they?”

Dried blood crumbles slightly in the creases of your vest. You glare up at the pillar of smoke rising into the sky before you. No, you suppose they aren’t helping.

Cities have always been to your taste. Mooks back on Derse who had too much spine or too little brains used to complain about petty shit like crowding, sanitation, or monstrous whispers floating down from the void. Griping like that fell on deaf ears when it came to the crowns- that or one of your crew was sent out to quiet it whenever it got too loud. But you had always enjoyed Derse. It had a dark subtlety to it that seemingly only you appreciated. Something about the sprawling architecture and low hues resonated with you in a visceral way. People treated you with respect there. You were a dignitary with few social peers, and even less intellectual ones. Strategy fell to you in that God-forsaken war, and you relished the responsibility. Prospit feared your name and you had no one but the crowns and Jack to answer to. 

The voice in your head mumbles something. You don't catch what she said. You don't try particularly hard.

If there was nothing else everyone agreed on, it was that Derse was worlds better than than the obnoxious glowing marble hanging far away in the void. A true Dersite, down to every last man, woman, and child, boiled with a keen petty hatred for Skaia. Only idiots didn't know this. A reality that while you didn't necessary broil as passionately over as many did, you accepted nonetheless. You had experienced blue sky and white clouds overhead firsthand. The darkness of your home planet felt welcoming in comparison.

You are not on Derse. You are not on Skaia. You are on the dead planet that once played host to a race of insane horned children. There is desert for miles in every direction, and undoubtedly even less friendly terrain beyond that. Direction from a voice that may or may not be real led you here and direction from an additional, equally questionable source pointed you towards a pillar of smoke on the horizon. So you had walked through the sand and heat, for hours. Sunrise had only just begun to peer over the horizon when you set out. The sun now glared down at you from its insidious perch high above, devoted to the single cause of stewing your innards within your shell. Briefly allowing yourself to once again ponder if you'd actually died in that explosion last night to facilitate you being deposited into this hell, you follow that thought with a feeling of dazed confusion. Cresting a dune of sand, your vision slowly zeroes in to the most engaging landmark this sandpit has offered all goddamn morning.

It only takes a glance for you to recognize the shape. Rising skyward, the sun burns a backlit profile of a weapon down at you as you move forward. A question appears in your mind- strange, kid acts like she knew everything about these bastards- and is deftly ignored. With a few more paces and it's before you, slender and dark and decorated with curving white stripes. A lance. Her lance. Tip plunged into the ground, handle swaying slightly in the wind. You can see shapes lying beyond it in the corner of your eye, but who gives a damn. She was _here._

"My, my... I do not envy the one who had to assign her this particular journey."

Images of Snowman bitterly trudging through the sand form in your mind. You almost smile.

"Given the caliber of machinations our prime adversary chooses to entertain himself with, can we agree on the assumption that this is almost certainly a trap?"

You look up from the lance towards the shapes you couldn't have been goddamn bothered with before. Which turns out to be a true testament to how little you care, seeing as you're apparently standing on the rim of a freshly-exploded shrapnel field. Smoking debris are embedded into the sands in a wide area mere feet away from where you stand. Burn marks glow green across twisted metal shards and crumbling concrete slabs, surface sizzling in the heat of the sun. The kid draws a subtle breath of surprise as you follow the wreckage's trajectory to its source. A massive gray spire rises over the horizon, the tip of which bends back on itself at an odd angle. The smoke pillar that had led you here is rising from a massive, skull-shaped construct- or rather, the crater that encompasses a notable percentage of its visible exterior. Cracked edges trail off from the skull's eyesocket, forming a rough oval in the grey surface. Roaring within is a vivid emerald flame, vague shapes of familiar machines flickering in its light. Another spire lies broken and collapsed on the desert floor. Reconstructing it's original position in your mind, you're faced with a horned visage that evokes a chilling sense of nostalgia.

Yeah, if this isn't a trap you'll burn the next century you see and take a lungful of Nevada gas. Question is whether it's one to put you in the dirt, or one to make you do his dirty work for him.

"Well he certainly went to the trouble of setting a grandiose stage for you, Mister Diamonds. A deathtrap would be a least a little more subtle than this, don't you think?"

Hold on. A stage for you?

"Oh! Us, I meant. Pardon!"

... Right. You got it, kid.

But she is right. This whole package is hinky. The old bastard wants to play with his food, get you to do his laundry for him before he offs you. Sick games like this are right up his alley. But on the other hand, the cards aren't exactly in your favor at the moment. Either you follow the scorched breadcrumbs left behind for you or wander around this patsy ranch until the end of time. It's not like you can go back to where you were hiding after dragging your bleeding shell away from Felt Manor- that place is even worse off that this one. Looking back down, you narrow your eyes at the lance handle and set your jaw. If you're playing games, you certainly aren't doing it unarmed. If the tip of this thing is attached to a landmine, then that's something you'll just have to deal with. Fingers curling around the handle, you hold down a breath and pull- then let it out when the weapon moves without the telltale _click_ you'd dreaded. The sand gives way after a second tug, a few particles clinging to the narrow spike as you pull it free. Lifting it up, you take a moment to feel out the weight. It's surprisingly light for its size. Almost feels like your old cuestick, but the weight is settled towards the handle instead of the business end. Stabbing, not swiping. Looking back up, you start picking your way through the shrapnel. You've handled weirder weapons in the past. This'll be child's play.

That thought nestles itself comfortably in your mind until you cross the fifteen-foot perimeter mark of the station. With a loud crackle, the green inferno burning above you abruptly gives up its tragically futile mission of turning the station's technology to ashes. It splutters out and dies, spitting a half-hearted shower of sparks and a final puff of smoke into the sweltering air. Her lance suddenly feels heavy in your grip, one hand resting just before the spike cuts off and the other clenched around the handle. The wind whistles past your face as you start moving, caution making a welcome return to your footfalls. Guess it just ran out of wires to fry. That or your arrival convinced it to give up the ghost.

"Graves..."

You glance away from the thinning trail of smoke ahead. What's that, kid?

"Look, down there by the station, there's..."

You see 'em now. Three spots of color against gray cement and dull red sand. Across the field of wreckage you make out two white shapes atop spindly gravemarkers; a yellow stripe stretching across the first and light blue across the second. Before them you can make out a small crater in the sand, which is quickly shoved aside as your attention zeroes in on the shape left of the two grave markers. A third object lies on the ground next to them, a shade of red darker than the desert floor around it. Your pace quickens towards it, an excited skip in your pulse and a quiet gasp the in the back of your mind. That crowbar-slinging bastard makes up over half the reasons that you an' the crew haven't managed to shoot these baboons out of the air, if he's dead...

Bloodstained sand makes a signature _crnch_ under your shoes, a sound made familiar by long nights of interrogation in dark, dirt-floored warehouses. You have enough time to feel a twinge of bitter disappointment as the hat comes into focus; the red too bright, the brim too short, the stiff, sharp digit of 7 on the front you'd hoped to see replaced by a curling, cheeky number 3. Then, in a moment of exhilarating déjà vu, you experience a sensation equally as familiar and yet infinitely less satisfying as bloody sand under your brogue wingtips- two rows of sharpened incisors embedding themselves into your arm.

Swinging reflexively at the attack's apparent origin, your lance whistles through thin air in a wide arc. Stumbling with the weapon's weight, you hiss in pain as arms encircle your neck from behind and the teeth dramatically reintroduce themselves into your shoulder. Dropping your weapon, you devote both hands to the delicate task of disengaging a temporally detached sharkman from your person before he gets wise and relocates his offensive efforts. Which is to say that you yank him over your shoulder and throw him to the ground just in time to prevent him from taking a chunk out of your cartorid. A translucent orange figure impacts the sand, landing perfectly in the person-shaped crater you previously neglected to investigate. It vanishes in an instant, but it doesn't matter. You'd know that bite anywhere.

"That's-!"

Fin. Slippery bastard's attacking you from the past. 

"He's alive?"

She sounds surprised. Scooping up your lance, you start scanning the area around you. Don't sweat it, kid. He won't be kicking for too much longer.

She doesn't have much of a response to that. Which is just as well, seeing as you're currently engaged in combat against a goddamn ambush machine. Fin could attack you from any damn angle he wants. But the other side of that coin is what kept you alive through all his hijinks in the past- whatever he tries to pull already happened in the space you're standing. Scanning the sand, you ready her lance and look for clues. The fish might be sneaky, but he's not careful- there should be traces of him all over.

You eyes land on the red hat lying sadly on the ground. You smirk. Heh. Traces. 

“True comedy.” Kid's voice sounds a lot less sympathetic now.

You look at the other two graves. The thin grey objects holding up Stitch and Sawbuck’s hats are guns. Their guns. A tommy gun and a sawed-off shotgun respectively to be precise, barrels buried into the grit with hats balanced on the handles. You raise an eyebrow as you look the gravemarkers up an’ down. The clips have been yanked outta the chambers with the grace of a limbless ballerina. Plus, you coulda’ sworn Trace packed a shotgun. Idiot would hit people with it like a kid smackin’ a piñata whenever he couldn't just blow them away. If his main squeeze was the one to cobble together this makeshift boneyard, why’s his hat just sittin’ there?

Hurling yourself to the left, you feel buckshot grazing your side as Fin opens fire from the past. A tinny _cuh-chunk_ comes from the graves,the sound of Fin cocking his leadspitter echoing through time and space. You hiss in pain as blood starts leaking from the shallow wounds, then roll to left as fast as your body can take you. Sand kicks up in an impact cloud where you were lying, the shrapnel you felt burning against your hip catching up with the action that put it there. Punching the ground to pull yourself up, you hear another metallic echo Fin readies the next salvo. Steeling your mind, you run the numbers for where the sound came from and then swing your arm around with all the strength you can muster.

The throw is sloppy. Her lance’s unfamiliar weight makes the trajectory wobble and curve downwards as flies through the air. If it had been you pool cue, or even one of Slick’s knives, you could have buried the tip between the bastard’s eyes. You'll have to do better in the future. 

But for now, a hit in the shoulder will do. 

A translucent orange apparition appears as the weapon buries itself in Fin’s flesh, a look of dumbfounded terror spreading across his snout as he fires a hail of orange streaks up into the sky. He shouts out in pain as you scramble up to your feet, rushing to close the distance between the two of you. Shark fin soup has never been to your tastes, but you think your fondness for the dish might increase in the near future for some reason. Your opponent looks up and snarls at you, dropping the shotgun in order to wrench the lance’s tip from his person. Knees threatening to go on strike, you leap the last few feet towards hi,. The time specter vanishes in the blink of an eye, and your fingers clench down on thin air where it stood. And, once again, you fall flat on your face.

If you make it through this, you're swearing off sand. No more beaches, no more warehouses, no more quarries, and absolutely no more fucking deserts.You’re going to put a grenade in every single goddamn sandbox you see, and the boys will just have to goddamn deal with it.

“He could help, you know.”

Your face curls in disgust. Absolutely _not._

“He could too! That nifty future tracking ability would be a massive boon to your search. Besides, what do you have to l-”

No. Never. You shove a fist into the ground, forcing yourself up on one knee. Your entire carapace aches from last night’s fall from the top of Felt manor, and blood is still dripping from where Fin hit your side. Pulling your feet up under you, you spit bloody sand from your mouth and grimace. The back of your hand stings as you pull her lance up from where it fell. You ignore the pain. Top hat doesn't deserve the attention.

“... Look, I know the history between you two is bloody terrible, but from a purely strategical standpoint-”

Not. Listening. Kid.

There's a quiet, frustrated huff in response to that. You almost smirk despite yourself.

Crimson drips from the end of her lance. A trail of similar hue snakes its way up the wall before you, blood drying on the scarred surface. Squinting, you peer through the remaining smoke emanating from whatever unfortunate mechanism lies inside the station and see Fin's bloodtrail slip over the crater's edge. You scowl. Now that's just insulting. Fin being an utter maroon is not new information, but to think you'd fall for an ambush _that_ obvious is just disrespectful. 

"You're absolutely correct. How could he do such a thing to pillar of courtesy and politeness such as yourself?"

Exactly. Well said, kid. Her huff of frustration is a lot more audible this time. The scarred concrete of the station wall is rough under your grip, your body protesting as you begin pulling yourself up the slope. Ignoring the ache, you tuck her lance into the folds of ragged grey fabric coating your back. If a shotgun-wielding fishman with a hole the size of a pomegranate in his shoulder could scale this rock-climbing course, you sure as he-

"I hope you're aware of how much you're underestimating him, since you're so devoted to the cause of disregarding every possible piece of advice I could possibly offer." 

... Advice from a voice in my head that only appeared after everyone I cared about bit the dust and a bunch of slack-jawed Kermit the Frog impersonators with a shared clock fetish tortured me half to death. 

"Advice from a voice in your head who saved you from... whatever awful thing you just called them, offered you a chance to reunite with said lost companions, and lead you to a contact with better understanding of this broken timeline than both of us put together!!"

And is now suggesting I team up with a half-witted bozo who tried to ambush me with a shotgun?

"... He's... admittedly not the most rational of my... of your adversaries, but that doesn't change the fact that-"  
That he's waiting behind the lip of this wall to put buckshot in my spinal column? 

"Well... yes." She sounds dejected.

You grip a hand on said lip, planting your loafers against the station and balancing yourself to pull the weapon from your exile rags with your free hand. Squinting up at the opening, you run the numbers. Your weight against the lifting power required, with the motion and heft of the lance... 

He's there. Your attack slowed him down. Bastard barely had enough time to put out the fire dancing across the greater half of his hiding spot before you and the kid hit the scene. Fin had nowhere to run and almost no time to prepare. Only one place he could be. The coward's hiding just past the wall, biting his lip to avoid choking down smoke and bleeding out from the wound you put on him. Crouched in silence, clutching his leadtosser and waiting for you to be stupid enough to hop right down in front of the barrel. He thinks you're good as zotzed. Gripping her lance's handle tighter, you bend your legs and ready yourself. At least he won't have very long to be disappointed. This'll be duck soup.

In the moment before you jump, a strange thought passes through your mind. A cold, unfamiliar twinge appears in your chest.

Hey, kid.

"... Yes, Mister Diamonds?"

You're a voice in my head, right.

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

What happens to you if I croak?

It takes a moment for her response. "I... can guarantee that it will be highly unpleasant for me."

Well.

Don't worry about it too much, kid.

You kick off the wall, hand gripping the ledge pushing up to vault your body over the wall's lip. Tired muscles crying out in protest, wind whips through the ragged cape on your back as you twist your body around in a motion you frankly feel like never performing again for the rest of your goddamn life. The lance swoops down in a wide arc, tip plunging through the space of Fin's hideyhole with lethal velocity. 

Which would have been a fatal blow to the side of his head if said hideyhole wasn't, bafflingly against your calculations, entirely void of slow-witted shark skull.

Instead you crash to the floor. Her lance's velocity drags your arm along in its arc, robbing your aching body of any reserve dexterity that would've allowed you to recover. For the second time in ten minutes your face makes an abrupt acquaintance with the floor; but this floor has the gall to be made out stone tile instead of pleasant face-cushioning sand. You feel deserts lift away from the bottom of your shit list to make room for "ancient laboratories" to take its place, a sensation with a vivid similarly to having your carapace slammed into fire-warmed tile by the heartless and unrelenting pull of gravity. 

You don't get the chance to feel foolish. The sound of a lighter flicking to life emanates from about you. Cracking an eye open, you look up just in time to see Fin light the corner of a playing card on fire. He's slumped up against the smoking machine, shotgun tucked under his arm and blood covering a solid half of his suit jacket. Lighter slipping through his fingers, the card's face becomes visible as Fin closes his eyes and flicks the burning card toward you. Six of clubs.

This time, as the pipe bomb spins in the air towards you, you do have the chance to feel foolish. Very, very foolish

Had you not become very, very familiar with what a close-range detonation feels like in recent history, you likely would have had the pleasure of mistaking what you feel next as the explosive’s output. Instead, when you're abruptly yanked to the left through the air, you immediately know that this is not a natural result of recognized circumstances. The air suddenly feels thick and heavy. You're flying through the air, aching muscles giving a muffled sigh of relief as an unidentified force takes the responsibility of movement over for them. Colors flash over your vision, brightly translucent and flickering rapidly from one shade to the next. Through the obnoxious filter you see Fin, movements mirroring yours, a look of dumbfounded confusion on his bruised features as another coat of colors pulls him to the side. Moving in perfect reflection of you, both painfully slow and almost faster than you can even comprehend. Whatever force is propelling you through the air is dragging you through thickened atmosphere with remarkable strength, resistance of the air around you squeezing and stretching your body as you pass through it. A bizarre panorama of the ruined lab blasts past you at a snail’s pace. You are a bullet through wet cement and it feels atrocious. 

As you pass over some flat circular contraption built into the lab floor, you catch the shape of a figure out of the corner of your eye. Tall and dark, the figure is leaning down over a terminal with a hand over a large, green button. A pair of thin white objects are clasped in their other hand, the same flashing energy coating you and Fin pulsing around them and running up their forearm. Their shape becomes more defined, light from a pipe bomb exploding in slow motion framing slender curves and toned muscles. In a sublime moment of fiery rage, your mind identifies your savior as the one who started the downward spiral you're trapped in. For a moment you wish you could move your mouth, the desire to scream Snowman to death glorious and intoxicating in your chest.

But then the moment passes, and as your vision fills with white, you realize that Snowman lacks the tall, curving horns of the woman operating the machine you're floating within.  
Fin vanishes in a flash of light next to you, and the lab fades from view as you do the same. The voice in your head calls your name from somewhere far away, but you're gone. Spent. The dark creeps in from the corners of your vision and you open the doors wide for the lack of consciousness seep in. You've done enough for one day.

When you come to, all you see is blue sky and white clouds overhead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy, everyone. Sleepy here. I know it's been a few months since the last chapter, but I'm trying my best to get this project back in motion. I've just started my first year in college, and I'd be lying if I said it hasn't been rough on me so far.
> 
> That bein' said, hey, new chapter. I'm fairly certain this is the longest one so far (just under 4000 words), and after rewriting this bad boy about 7 times, I'm pretty happy with how it came out. This should give you all a better look at where Droog's arc is headed, as well as cement the primary allies he'll be working with. Next chapter will be a Rose one and will hopefully take a lot less time to write. These things are a lot harder to do for Droog for some reason, but by the end I think I got the hang of it.
> 
> Also I'm never fucking writing anything in a desert ever again I hate the word sand and want it erased from time and space
> 
> See y'all soon,   
> Sleepy


End file.
